The encrypted message arrives just as I'm finishing the champagne. Not unusual in my line of work - clients who contact me rarely use standard communication channels.

The screen of my phone illuminates with a single word: "Boston." Followed by an address and a time.

No signature, no explanation. But the encryption pattern is familiar - a unique combination of algorithms I'd recognize anywhere. Hardison's handiwork.

I drain the last of the champagne and reach for my jacket. Boston means the Leverage crew, which probably means trouble. But trouble with them usually pays well - in money, experience, or both.

Three hours later, I'm standing outside a nondescript brewpub in the warehouse district. The sign reads "The Rising Tide," but I know better than to trust appearances with these people.

The door opens before I can knock, revealing Sophie Devereaux in a stunning red dress that hugs her curves perfectly. She smiles knowingly, as if she's been expecting me for hours.

"You're late," she says, stepping aside to let me enter.

"Fashionably late," I correct, scanning the room. The atmosphere is cozy, with wooden tables and brewing equipment visible through a glass partition. And there, gathered around a table in the back corner, are the rest of the team - Eliot cleaning what looks like a very sharp knife, Hardison typing furiously on a laptop, and Parker... nowhere in sight.

"Where's the spider?" I ask, knowing better than to assume she's not present.

A soft thud from the rafters answers me before Parker drops down beside the table, landing perfectly on her feet. "Hi!" she says brightly, as if dropping from ceilings is a normal way to greet people.

Hardison looks up from his screen, grinning. "Glad you could make it. We got a problem."

"When don't you have a problem?" I counter, taking the empty seat he indicates.

Eliot glances up, his expression unreadable. "This one's different. It's about a friend of yours."

"Who?"

Hardison's grin fades. "Neal Caffrey. He's gone missing."

My casual demeanor vanishes. Neal might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he's also someone I've worked with on more than one occasion. "What do you mean, missing?"

"The FBI says he escaped custody again," Sophie explains, her tone serious. "But Peter Burke doesn't believe it. He thinks Neal was taken."

"And you need me to find him?"

"We need you to help us find him," Hardison corrects. "Because this isn't just about Neal."

He turns his laptop toward me, displaying a series of files. "Our intel says Moreau might be involved."

The name sends a chill down my spine. Damien Moreau - the criminal mastermind who once controlled Eliot and countless others. If he's resurfaced...

"This just got complicated," I murmur.

"That's why we called you," Eliot says, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You've worked both sides. You know how these people think."

"So what's the plan?"

Sophie smiles, that familiar glint in her eye that means trouble - the good kind. "We're putting together a team. The best of both worlds."

Before I can respond, the door opens again. Peter Burke stands in the doorway, looking uncomfortable in the casual setting. Behind him is someone I haven't seen in years.

"You called," Neal's friend Mozzie says, glancing around suspiciously. "This better be good."

The team has assembled. And as I look around the table at this unlikely group of criminals, agents, and everything in between, I realize one thing: This job is going to be unforgettable.